


Slow Hand

by honey_wheeler



Series: The Pointer Project [1]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: F/M, Future Fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-12
Updated: 2013-11-12
Packaged: 2018-01-01 06:58:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,651
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1041783
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/honey_wheeler/pseuds/honey_wheeler
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Then by all means,” she sighs, stretching into him as he lowers himself atop her, her fingers looped around his wrists. “Hurry up and go slow.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Slow Hand

**Author's Note:**

  * For [thefairfleming](https://archiveofourown.org/users/thefairfleming/gifts).



> So sometimes you get to talking with **[Jal80](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Jal80/pseuds/Jal80)** about how, when you think about it, a lot of Pointer Sisters songs would suit various Jon Snow ships, and then next thing you know you're texting things like "JON/YGRITTE = DARE ME, Y/MFY??" and listening to Slow Hand fifty times in a row and then fic like this happens. SUE ME.
> 
> Jon/Sansa - **[Slow Hand](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fcSx0hz6WSw)**

Jon’s been deliberating his move for the last quarter hour.

It isn’t as if such deliberation is unusual or unexpected. Indeed, Jon is careful in most things, even more so now that they can no longer be considered young – it’s with a pang that Sansa often thinks how she’s older now than her parents ever were in life – and Jon’s actions carry far more weight as a steward of Winterfell than they did as its bastard. Sometimes Sansa thinks that the more inconsequential the decision, the more he labors over it, so that their nightly games of cyvasse can stretch over hours and days.

She would mind, except for how his slow, deliberate hands over the board remind her of her slow, deliberate hands on her body.

Sansa would not call herself experienced. Although, she reflects as takes a sip of wine and holds it on her tongue, that’s not entirely true; even half of what she’s explored with Jon would count her as experienced. More accurately, she would not call her partners varied. Harry – dim, sweet Harry, whose wife she’d been for a handful of turns and whose widow she’s been for over thrice as long – was not the most suitable man to introduce a frightened girl who was barely more than a child to the marriage bed. She cannot say he hurt her, but nor can she say he pleased her, and his visits to her bed were little more than abortive fumbling that was over in a matter of minutes. There’d been only one man after – or rather during, an act of infidelity Sansa is not proud of, but is not particularly bothered by either – a stranger at an inn whose name Sansa had not even learned, a Northman who reminded her of the home she missed so keenly. He’d taken twice as long as Harry’s customs normally lasted, and still it was over before Sansa had chance to do more than notice some promising warmth in places that had never been attended by anyone but herself. It was more bother than satisfaction, and she’d not sought out a bed partner again, even after Harry had been killed and she’d painstakingly made her way back home to Winterfell, to Rickon as Lord and Jon as something other than the half-brother he’d barely been to her before.

She didn’t entirely fall into Jon's bed immediately upon arrival, but at the tail end of a decade later, it seems close enough to be true.

He’s absently stroking one fingertip over one of his pieces now, his hands surprisingly delicate for how solid and heavy they are. Sansa supposes that’s the essence of Jon; a gentle power, made all the more appealing for how unthinkingly and easily it’s kept in check. There’s silver in his hair now, only a sprinkling at his temples and dotting his beard, but enough to lend him an air of permanence. Her father’s hair had never gone silver. Such a mark of aging in Jon is reassuring. Many is the night Sansa has held him to her breast in sleep, his steady breath washing over her bare skin, and made fervent wishes to any gods in existence that she might see him in old age, that they might never stop seeing changes in themselves that Ned and Catelyn Stark never had.

“My lady?” Jon asks, rousing her from her sad reverie. She smiles at the title. From anyone else it would seem formal. From Jon it seems decadent, a heady thrill, knowing that she is precisely that to him. “You seem troubled.”

“Only too far in my head,” she answers. “Please do continue making your move. Or not making it, as the case may be.” He makes a face at her and then, childishly, sticks out his tongue, prompting a bright peal of laughter from her. They may have grown older in some ways, but in others they seem little different than the green children who left Winterfell so full of hope and promise.

Then he absently licks his bottom lip as he returns his attention to the board, and what Sansa feels is a world away from childish.

That tongue was on her body only this morning, in the grey hour before dawn. There was not a scrap of her skin that Jon didn't taste, not a crook or crevice he didn't explore with slow care and diligence, as if he wasn’t intimately acquainted with every bit of her a hundred times over. Sansa’s blood beats heavily in her ears now as she remembers the feel of it, remembers his hands on her hips pulling her to lie flat, her thighs against the delicate whorls of his ears. No matter how many times he’s tasted her thus – and it’s been more times than she could ever count – there’s always a fresh shock of feeling, a primal and painfully pleasurable response. And much as he carefully deliberates over his next move now, he had settled in and taken his time.

It nearly feels as if his tongue is on her now for how heated and restless Sansa has suddenly become. She watches his fingertips toy with the game pieces, watches him rub at his bristled chin thoughtfully. Why watching a man absorbed in a game rather than in her should be so potent, Sansa doesn’t know, but she feels as if she could vibrate right out of her skin.

He doesn’t notice when she spills her wine setting it down on the table. Nor does he notice when she crosses her legs tightly, letting her eyes flutter half-shut at the sweet pressure. It’s only when he bites absently at the pad of his thumb that Sansa squeaks – she can’t help it, she _squeaks_ , like a bloody mouse – and his eyes drift to hers, at first distracted and then focused. He takes in her flushed cheeks, her crossed legs, her hand fisted in her gown, and understanding slowly spreads across his face. Understanding and a wicked glint of mischief.

“Are you well, my lady?” his voice seeming near an octave lower than it had before, so low that it feels almost like being stroked and Sansa shivers in response.

“Oh yes,” she manages. “Very well. Please, don’t let me distract you.”

“Yes, I do like to…focus,” he says, pairing the words with a gentle fingertip run along the edge of the board in a touch that Sansa could swear she feels zipping up her spine. 

He could win the game in less than a handful of moves. It’s as clear as day on the board between them. But when he finally does make his move, it’s a throwaway, something that makes no advance for him. Quirking an eyebrow at him, Sansa moves her own piece, putting her Queen even more in harm’s way. Again, Jon deliberates, stroking two fingers over his lower lip, that full lower lip that's pinker than any girl could wish her own to be. His eyes flicker to hers and then back down to his pieces, the faint smile tugging at his lips so smug Sansa wants to strike him and kiss every bit of him all at once.

“Oh, do get on with it and capture my Queen,” she says suddenly, hiding her smile with her glass as she takes another draught of wine. He does not hide his smile. It’s slow and lazy, the sort she only ever sees in their chambers, one so at odds with Jon the hard worker, Jon the captain of the guard, Jon the beating heart of Winterfell. 

“And why would I wish to do that?”

“Because then we can retire to bed and you can _capture_ my _Queen_ ,” she says as near to haughty as one can be while making silly innuendos. His answering grin is bright and not lazy at all this time. Sansa tries to keep her face dignified and seductive, but she can’t help grinning back at him, the sort of grin that has her nose wrinkling and her cheeks bunching.

“Right, then,” he says, and in a motion faster than any he’s made all evening, he stands and sweeps the game pieces from the board with one swing of his forearm, the pieces clattering to the floor and bouncing in all directions. Sansa laughs in delight, only laughing moreso when he hauls her up from her chair with a hand on her wrist, bends to set his shoulder to her belly, and hoists her up over his shoulder in a most undignified position with her arse in the air and her hair dangling nearly to the floor.

“Jon!” she gasps, having trouble speaking between her giggles and the jounce of her stomach on his shoulder as he walks to her bedchamber, kicking the door shut behind him as he goes.

“I’m in a hurry,” he tells her. He stops at the bed and fairly tosses her to the mattress, from enough of a height that tiny white feathers puff out of the seams and float over Sansa. She catches a feather on one fingertip, the sweet throb of her heart a strange and wonderful contrast with the throb between her thighs as she watches him bend to remove his boots.

“Why?” she asks, reaching out to curl one hand in his belt and tug him to stand closer, his muscles hard and alive against her knuckles. He leans down, one hand on either side of her shoulders, until his curls brush her forehead and she can taste wine on his breath.

“Because,” he drawls slowly. “I intend to spend all night touching and tasting you, and I’d like as much time as possible.” Sansa shivers with pleasure, looking up at him beneath heavy-lidded eyes.

“Then by all means,” she sighs, stretching into him as he lowers himself atop her, her fingers looped around his wrists. “Hurry up and go slow.”


End file.
